graphic.

you know, i keep a lot to myself. more than people realize i think.

but sometimes, on nights much like this one, it gets very difficult to keep it inside. the only way i can describe this is through another little problem i used to have; bulimia. you see, when i was at my worse point with the bulimia, all i had to do was hiccough after i ate and the toilet would be full. it didn't always take a finger down the throat or much effort at all because of the anxiety of having food in my stomach. i suppose, now that i've stopped doing that, i've developed a mental bulimia in it's place. i get in these moods where i have no idea exactly what i'm feeling because i vacillate between sad and angry and jealous and hopeless and eventually i reach a point where i can't keep any of it in. i scream in pillows. i throw things. and if that doesn't work, well, i've got enough scars to show for what else happens.

but now i'm probably scaring everyone away, and that's not what i want.

what i want is to just vent. to be able to say things without feeling like everything that bothers me is absolutely inconsequential; to feel like i'm not completely alone. i hate feeling like everyone is lying to me. i hate feeling like i have to keep myself in check because if not, i'm going to lose everyone i might have at the moment.

unfortunately, this always proves to be impossible.

rarely, i will get to a point where i actually make an effort to talk to someone about this stuff but i never fail at talking myself out of it. sometimes i figure no one wants to hear this bullshit and other times i figure that if i'm actually completely honest, i'll scare them away. and you know why? because sometimes- well, most times- i scare myself.

anyway, i'll stop there because i would be surprised to learn anyone even got this far. i just wish it were easier for people to understand what it's like to be me; not stephanie, the nineteen year old girl who works and yada yada yada. no. ME; the girl in my brain who's self-destructive, self-loathing, and absolutely terrified of herself.

If you see me on the side of the highway, feel free to pick me up and take me away.

This is possibly one of the most pathetic things anyone who calls themself a geek could admit/write, but I'm willing to risk sounding like the pathetic geek I am.

But where to start?

I suppose the best place to begin is where I myself began. You see, I've been re-reading the Harry Potter series because, well, I don't really have an excuse other than I love the books and they take me away. So last night I finished the third book (Prisoner of Azkaban, for those of you who don't know) and after I spent a few minutes holding back tears caused by Buckbeak and Sirius' need to go into hiding I decided to think about what my Patronus might look like (were I able to conjure one, that is). Naturally, I would love for my own Patronus to take the shape of a Pheonix, after all it is my favourite animal (or mythical creature for those of you with no imagination). When I settled on that, I started to think about what moment in my life would make me happy enough to actually produce that Patronus. And you know what came to mind?

NOTHING.

I ran through every "happy" moment in my life; any moment that I knew I might have smiled or felt really good but none of those moments even made me smile to think about. None of them gave me a sense of hope, happiness, or even simple contentment. Upon realizing this I also noticed something else: I can't remember what it feels like to be genuinely happy. I know I've been happy before, and I don't believe I am perpetually depressed because things do have the ability to make me smile. But nothing made me remember what it feels like to be happy.

So, because of all that nonsensical thinking and remembering I sank deeper and deeper into what I call the Rabbit Hole. Isn't ironic how my entire life seems to fit perfectly into some fictional mold? Anyway, this has been bothering me since last night so I figured I would write about it. Though I'm used to getting little to no feedback when I actually write in this blog, I think it might be pointless to ask that whoever reads this tells me what they're Patronus might be and what it feels like (to them) to be happy- genuinely happy.

But I'm not going to ask, I'll leave the decision up to whoever's eyes take the time to scan over this post. If you feel like responding, go for it. If not, I understand.

That being said, I have let go of ever producing my own "real-life" Patronus. I now know what it truly means to "live in the moment" as a result of my personality disorder, as well as understand just how black and white I make the world. Unfortunately I have little hope in ever "fixing" this mental little problem of mine and will now focus all my energy into my sleep. I am determined to see my nightmares through, to wake up from my night terrors and embrace them as something I can not escape from. I guess it's my own way of keeping myself out of some shrink's office because I have yet to find talking to a therapist about any of this stuff beneficial. I've also decided that since I once again feel I am utterly alone in the world, and relatively friendless, I will write until my fingers bleed and have run out of words. The only problem with that is my mind gets so clouded from boughts of self-medication that I can hardly articulate anything worth reading in one sitting. I wake up in the morning, my face plastered to a notebook and a pen still in my hand, to read snippets and phrases of ideas that might have crossed my medicated mind the night before.

One day though, I promise you, I will write something worth reading.
I will write something that feels complete, if only for a moment.

And one day people will read it without passing me off as another insane, abnormal mind too difficult to deal with. When that day comes, I hope I'm sober enough and sane enough to realize it's there.